The Party That Never Quits

On a whim a few days before new years, I sent this tweet:



And so I did. As of midnight January 1st, 2011, I pledged to not drink coke in any form for a year.

And today, it's been 100 days since I've had any.

I'm proud of me. I'm pleased to be able to say "i told you so" to a number of people who thought I couldn't do it ;)

But I must be honest.

It's been really hard.

I think it's been more difficult to fight the habit of drinking coke and the immediate mood lifter (for a little while) it would give me, than actually missing the taste.

Some things really make me want one.

Fueling the car
When the kids stress me out
Music practice on Thursdays
When I'm bored
When I'm hungry

While I'm finding it easier to push through those cravings, they don't seem to be going away very much.

I don't think I've lost weight.

I don't think my skin is any better.

I'm not sleeping any different.

Why am I doing this again? :D

But, I will see it through. Maybe at the end of the year I'll be able to see a little more clearly.

265 days to go.

Adam and I have been wanting to enlarge our library. Not only have we had children destroy our books, but we gave a lot of them away in various moves. Adam still regrets giving up his Tom Clancy and Dale Brown collections.

On facebook today, a girlfriend had one of those "paste this into your notes" type surveys. The premise was that out of the listed hundred books, the BBC believed that most people would have read only 6. (some were book series counted as one)

I was quite delighted to realise that I had read 26 of them, but saddened to acknowledge that it had been many, many years since I had. Of late, I've found it difficult to focus on a book long enough to read it through, which is quite a distinct difference from a few years ago, where I could get through a book in a day. (I read Deathly Hallows in under 8 hours. I did time it too... but I still think Gwyn read it faster).  Some of them, I'd either heard of, or even had on my bookshelf at one time, but never got around to, and others, I've seen the movie, but not actually read the book. There were also some they I've started, but not fonished for some reason or other.

So, I'm going to make it my endeavour to read the entire list in the coming year. I'm going to post it over to the side and cross them off as I read them. I'll pop in bold the ones I already have. I'll italic them if I want to read it again, to refresh.

Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
For I wear a mask. I wear a thousand masks -
masks that I'm afraid to take off
and none of them are me.
Pretending is an art that's second nature with me
But don't be fooled, for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure
That all is sunny and unruffled with me
within as well as out
that confidence is my name
and coolness is my game,
that the water's calm
and I'm in command,
and that I need no one.
But don't believe me. Please!

My surface may be smooth but my surface is my mask,
My ever-varying and ever-concealing mask.
Beneath lies no smugness, no complacence.
Beneath dwells the real me in confusion, in fear, in aloneness.
But I hide this.
I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weaknesses
and fear exposing them.
That's why I frantically create my masks to hide behind.
They're nonchalant, sophisticated facades to help me pretend,
To shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation,
my only salvation
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
and if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself
from my own self-built prison walls
from the barriers that I so painstakingly erect.
That glance from you is the only thing that assures me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.

But I don't tell you this.
I don't dare.
I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh
and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing, that I'm just no good
and you will see this
and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate, pretending game
With a facade of assurance without
And a trembling child within.
So begins the parade of masks,
The glittering but empty parade of masks,
And my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's nothing
And nothing of what's everything, of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
Do not be fooled by what I'm saying
Please listen carefuly and try to hear
what I'm not saying.
Hear what I'd like to say
but what I can not say.

I dislike hiding.
Honestly.
I dislike the supificial game I'm playing,
the superficial phony game.
I'd really like to be genuine
and me.
But I need your help, your hand to hold
Even though my masks would tell you otherwise.

It will not be easy for you.
Long felt inadequacies make my defences strong.
The nearer you approach me
The blinder I may strike back.
Despite what the books say of men, I am irrational;
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
You wonder who I am?
You shouldn't
for I am everyman
and everywoman
who wears a mask.
Don't be fooled by me.
At least not by the face I wear.

~Charles C. Finn (1966)
no relation

(Found this looking for something else on my old blog. It was more true then than it is now... but it still resonates.)

What I heard my pastor say on Sunday:

"raise your hand...tired...weary...raising children"

Surely, and without pride, up goes my hand.

And only my hand.

The pastor asked me what else I lie about...

An elder laughs.

A friend four rows behind me busts out with "I knew it!"

Adam leans over and whispers:

"yeah, that was a negative question Jen."

Turns out, what he'd actually said was

"Raise your hand if you never feel tired or wearing raising children."

Ok.

So, the get skinny project has begun.

I have basically, 44lbs to lose, to get back to a husband approved 132.

I'd go lower. He won't let me.

Anyways. I need to be skinny(er, at least) by November 8th, when I leave to spend a week in Newcastle with my girlfriend, and then attend her wedding on the 13th.

Can we say over-achiever, much?

I'd post a picture of me now, but, um, I'd rather die.

So. 44lbs in 5 weeks, best case scenario. It's do-able... 8.8lbs a week. Or, for me, 3.99kg.


The Stats

Height: 5'5"
Weight: 182.98lbs
Bust: 46"
Waist: 41"
Hips: 43"
Thigh: 23"


The Game Plan

1) Cut the coke. *cry*
2) Cut the complex carbs... bread, potatoes, pasta
3) Cut the dairy... milk, cheese *sob*
4) Up the protein... lotsa lotsa meat
5) Eat every 3 hours... 3 mains, 3 snacks
6) Drink a bucket load more water
7) Walk on the treadmill for 1 hour a day/10k daily (whack in a movie, off I go)
8) Jillan Michaels' 30 Day Shred.


I was meant to start Jillian this morning, and get the most awful thing over and done with, but apparently, Adam woke me up three times.

I do not remember this. At all.

I remember getting up repetitively to the girls all night, which is probably why I remember not the alarm or the husband.

So, I'll go for a walk shortly, and then walk around the shops some more to do some errands Adam has asked.

Get your pom-poms ready, peoples. You've got some cheerin' on to do.

The new book for the Bloom Book club has been announced, and I can't wait to read it.



Angie and Jess said it their video release (that sounds so cool) that author Wayne Muller gives practical ways of creating a Sabbath. I hope so. I've found a lot of these book tend to be aimed at mothers that already have life pretty well together, and I, well... I so don't.

Our pastor is doing a series at church at the moment called "Servants & Stewards".

On Sunday, he said something like (because i didn't have a pen... or a notebook for that matter, I'll paraphrase)

"Quite often, we don't see growth in one area,
because we don't have another area in order"

Cue conscience prick.

I struggle very, very much with keeping a tidy home. I wish it to be a warm, restful, calm haven for my husband and family, but long ingrained requirements and definitions of clean and tidy make the task seem overwhelming.

My name is Jenny, and I suffer from CHAOS.

And a symptom of said CHAOS, is I don't feel I deserve a Sabbath.

I struggle to justify doing anything when so much is needed to be done in my home. I felt guilty the entire time I was sewing the other week. I have stacks of patterns I need to make up, but won't let myself, because I feel I don't deserve it. I don't go on outings with the children, because the time would be better spent tidying up the brothel I call a kitchen.

I don't have quiet time, I don't work out, I don't shower (hows that for honesty) because I feel that I'm being selfish to take time for me when that is time I should be using to clean.

Shitty thing about it, is that time I'm "saving" I don't actually do anything with, because I'm so intimidated by the sheer mountain of stuff that needs to be done. I hate only half doing things, so when I clean, it ALL must be done. And if I can't get it all done in my allotted time, then I won't even begin.

It's a vicious cycle.

If we're going to be brutally honest here, there are to major sins I see outworking in this area of my life.

Pride and Laziness

The way the pride comes into it is almost backwards. I want to have a clean house so it makes me look good. If I can't, then why bother?

Control issues, much?

Laziness... apathy... meh.

Meh.

That's my attitude most days. It's a constant fight in my head. I wake up wanting desperately to get into it and just get it done already. And then the kids will fight as they are waking up.

Meh.

I walk out to try and figure out breakfast, only to be confronted with every dish in the sink, dirty.

Meh.

The clothes I managed to wash last night when I did the uniforms have been dumped out of the dryer all over the floor.

Meh.

But it's not just meh. That's how I cope. Inside, I'm angry and guilty and feeling like a failure on so many levels it's not funny.

I'm thinking it's just going to take a concerted effort to overcome this battle I have in my mind... and my heart. I'm going to have to start making small changes, start new habits. Change my mindset.

Begin.

Do you have any tips that work for you
to keep your house under controll?

Come over to Bloom's new home and join us in pulling this book to bits, then sticking it all back together so it impacts our lives in practical ways.

For example...

Ok... we'll acknowledge the fact that I have crappy posture. But for serious, my boobs take up ALL of my torso. They go all around to my back. They practically sit on my lap. (I have pictures to prove it. For real. In a bra, obviously. We had reasons to take them. Nothing lewd.) They make me look at least a good 10-15 pounds heavier than I am.

This is me standing up... can you tell I leeerve photos?

A little thinner, but still not great. And I really should get Adam to take some un-edited photos... you can't really see here.

But any way. These were taken 3 weeks ago.

I might keep posting updates if your interested. Even if you're not, I probably will. I need some sort of accountability ;)

Sorry the tone of this is so... meh.

I desperately wanted braces.

I know.

I've always been sensitive about my teeth. I used to have really large gaps in them. My parents always said no, because, aparently, my wisdom teeth would push them together. (ps. it didn't happen) While they have closed up significantly, they are still a sore point with me. Especially when someone I hadn't seen for a decade ran into me and promptly sai "Oh! You've grown into your teeth!"

Hmm. Thanks for that.

I have a ski-jump nose. I'm actually starting to think I have a big nose, but the hubsand is adamant that it was just the angle of the photo. I remember being told once that they didn't like people with up-pointy noses, because it meant they were snobby.

Righty.

When I was in about 8th grade (and for an undisclosed time afterwards) I used to put rubberbands around my top teeth, thinking my home made dental retainer just might help matters.

Somewhere inbetween 8th and 10th grades I became so fed up with peoples jibes about my nose, I thought I'd better do something about it.

So I tried to file it down.

Oh, yes I did.

With an emery board no less.



Wasn't the tweens a fun time?






That was sarcastic, by the way.

I struggle to keep my house clean. Heck, sometimes it's not even sanitary.

I struggle to be a nice person and not yell at my kids in a really mean and even vicious way.

I struggle being a mother.

I struggle to like my three older children sometimes.

I struggle being a wife.

I struggle being a worship leader and not feel like a fraud.

I struggle with rage and outbursts that freak me out.

I struggle to fight off a selfish depression that I could quite easily give into.

I struggle to have close friendships that require me to be truly honest.

I struggle to read my bible.

I struggle to let Jesus really close.

I struggle with the Fruits of the Spirit, and wonder often if I really am saved, or I'd display these much better.

I struggle with sin.






*Previously posted on my Xanga

I turned, um, thirty at the beginning of this year.

I'm ok with it now.

But I've been musing on it. It's a strange age. I'm in a juxtaposition of feeling a bizarre mixture of too old for some things, and not mature enough for others.

I don't feel 30. I still feel 19.

I'm the worship co-ordinator at our church. I'm a mother of six children, and a partner/wife of 13 years. My husband and I own three cars. We pay rent. We have bills. Responsibility.

But I still think it's fun to have sleepovers with girlfriends. I still find farts funny. I'm very rarely serious. Adam and I watch stand up comedians on youtube on a regular basis. I still want to flit all over the globe.

I'm finding it difficult to comprehend that people are actually taking me seriously now. I don't feel that I'm any more mature, really, than I was a decade ago. And yet, I also look at some dreams and yearnings that I have and think that I'm too old for those now. I've wasted time.

Two weekends ago, we had prophets at our church.

Mind. Blowing.

Adam and I were blessed to be prophesied over. I bawled.

One of the parts I have been meditating over has been that we (Adam and I) are called to work with Youth. The Lord spoke to me in such a way that He made me realise in my heart, not just my head, that His timing is perfect.

Joy!

My dreams and yearnings that are still so dear to me, are still God's heart for me. They will happen. I have not wasted years, I have not missed the jump. While I may think that I'm a bit old in years to work with my beloved teenagers, in my heart, I'm still right there with them... but with the added benefit life know-how.

I am not immature... I have a youthful heart.

I am not old... I have a wealth of experience.

The Lord blessed me in the chest area. Abundantly.

It's not something that I particularly enjoy about myself, not being a wanton hussy who shows them off at every available oppertunity.

However, that being said, a lot of people thank that I am, simply because of their size, which is unfair, as it's not something I can do alot about. I struggle to dress modestly. I do so to the best of my ability, however, you just can't help but notice them. They're kind of out there.

Earlier this year, I was accused by my husbands best mate (and his wife) of dressing provocatively around him and flirting with him. My own husband's first reaction was to bust out laughing, the accusation was just that ridiculous. The second was to snot the guy.

I had never been in J's presence alone the entire time I had known him. They were members of our small group, which was held at our place, and most of the time, I hadn't even brushed my hair that day, and hadn't even taken the time to change my clothes and freshen up for my own husband, let alone look provocative for someone elses.

I'll take this moment to say that C is as FLAT AS A TACK.

But there's no bitterness there, no sireee.

I won't go into all the details of how this deeply affected me, for days, weeks and even months, suffice to say it was all very confusing, humiliating and hurtful, there was a bunch of stuff said and we don't speak anymore. And they left the church the next day.

All of that was to preface this: I got a referal to a plastic surgeon about a month ago. When I gave it into his office to book an appointment, I was told he was not taking on any more patients this year, and wouldn't be looking at any referals until the new year.

I got a letter last week, telling me I had an appointment with him the beginning of February.

I'm not doing it because of what happened. I'll admit that the knee jerk reaction was to go out and get a loan to have the work done the very next day. But I didn't, because that would be doing something rather dramatic in the wrong spirit. This is something that I have been contemplating for many, many years. However, I can no longer find clothes that fit me without looking like a tent, I have permanent dents in my shoulders from the weight, my back is constantly sore, and I recently had a mole cut out of one , and the weight of them popped the stitches. I purchase my bras from England because you can't buy my size commercially (30K), and I pay on average $100 AUD a bra.

Over here, a reduction is classified as a medical procedure, not a cosmetic one, and therefore fully covered by medicare. (I love "socialised medicine" *cheeky wink* It works over here.) Yet, I'd put it off for years and years. However, it's become more than ridiculous. My husband is fully supportive (though a little sad *wink*) and he has been wonderful through the whole ordeal.

*shrug* The letter has made it all a little more real, I suppose. Don't quite know how to process it all. I know it's not going to make me a better person, just a more comfortable one.